walls of paper-thin dreams
by symphonies of you
Summary: "And there's something maddeningly exquisite in the way that Scorpius rips through your defences and everything comes crashing down with sparks and lightning and earthquakes and blinding light like a perversely beautiful resemblance of the apocalypse." -lilyscorpius, one-shot.


**DEDICATION: **To Riya and Amy, two of my RL friends, who I adore.

**DISCLAIMER:** I own anything that you don't recognize. JKR and All Time Low own the rest.

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**WORDS: **3,214.

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you're just a daydream away, i wouldn't know what to say if i had you

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The fairytales feed you imaginings of happily-ever-afters and true love's kiss, intoxicating your mind slowly and truly with the wonderment of it all. You're not usually one to be corrupted by the naivety of such false principles, and yet you're hopelessly enthralled. And you're definitely not someone that people would think to label as an innocent.

You're tarnished, scarred, bruised by the horrid battles and wars that life has had the audacity to offer you.

You're that reckless girl that sneaks into nightclubs and bars to dance like your life depends on it and to drink yourself into a stupor at the young age of sixteen. You're the sort of person that craves being alone in the middle of a crowd of chaos and pandemonium, tucked away in your personal bubble and oblivious to the raging madness falling down all around you. You're an uncharacteristically manipulative Gryffindor and you've never been one to follow the rules—you've always been an outcast even amidst your own family.

You've always been an outcast because you're Lily Luna Potter, and you're supposed to be the cherished, _lovely _daughter of war heroes.

(But you're not.)

You think it's rather funny that Lucy lent you her precious leather-bound book of Muggle fairytales. You're not exactly someone to be trusted, and you don't know what propelled Lucy to trust you with her most prized possession. But you're glad that she did.

Or maybe you aren't. These stories have captured your heart entirely too fast.

But you can't help but hope that oh maybe, just maybe, you'll find your Prince Charming one day.

.

For the first time this year, you're holed up in the Library cramming for O.W.L.s, which are rudely encroaching on your depressingly limited amount of free time. And all of the words and symbols and numerals are running together into squiggly messes and spontaneous blotches of ink until they appear to have transformed into a fragmented foreign language because _Salazar_, why is memorizing the proper uses of the Essence of Dittany so bloody difficult?

You're about to curse the stupid idiot who came up with the dismal idea of these irritatingly rigorous examinations when you hear a faint, shuffling noise behind you.

When you turn around in your chair to see who it is, your eyes light up when you notice it's your older brother's best friend who has interrupted your frenzied revision as he was reaching for a book on the bookshelf behind her.

Scorpius Malfoy, a seventh year Ravenclaw who gives Rose a run for her money in terms of academics.

Perfect. Literally _perfect_.

"Malfoy, come over here for a sec, will you?" you demand.

For some reason, something flutters on the inside when that infamous smirk materializes on his face as he makes his way over.

"Miss Lily Luna Potter, to what do I owe this pleasure?" he raises an eyebrow, mockingly courteous.

You roll your eyes at his play at being charming. "Oh, lose the manners. Just help me cram for my stupid O.W.L.s."

He seems to notice the books and parchment piled up on both sides of you for the first time and looks genuinely surprised, which irks you because despite contrary belief, the art of studying isn't a completely foreign concept to you. You just never bother because it's not worth your time. Or, rather, you don't _consider _it worth your time.

"Studying? I must say, I'm impressed," he teases with an amused twinkle in his gray eyes.

You huff with obvious displeasure at his impertinence. "Oh, shut it. Are you going to help me or not, Malfoy?"

"Only if you say the magic word, Miss Potter," he responds with a smirk in place once again.

Honestly, can this boy _not _go five seconds without smirking? You bet seventeen Galleons that this boy was born smirking because really, it's quite ridiculous.

"Avada Kedavra."

"Tsk, tsk, that's not nice at all. Besides, that was _two _words."

"You're an idiot."

"Is it honestly that hard to say the magic word?"

You glare at him, your eyes flashing murderously as in that clichéd saying that never fails to irritate you. And you can't help that triumphant grin when you notice him visibly gulp, and you make a note to yourself to thank Aunt Hermione for letting you inherit her infamous glare.

He holds both hands up in mock surrender and settles down in the chair next to yours, examining the titles embroidering the myriad of ancient tomes stacked up on the desk. His face morphs into a mask of utter concentration and seriousness in a matter of seconds, maybe even milliseconds, and it's astounding.

(Fascinating.)

He decides to start with Charms, which you learn is his best and favourite subject. And you find it extremely ironic that he makes much more sense than your professors because aren't _they_ supposed to be the ones helping you learn all of this unnecessary information? It's strange, really, because when he explains the most profound concepts that you have ever trifled with, it makes complete sense and oh—

His voice sounds a fair bit like what you think perfection would sound like. It sounds like music or heaven or something of another parallel universe, and you think you can listen to it all day and all night because it's frustratingly enchanting.

And you decide that you most definitely are not falling for his voice.

.

He tutors you every single day, and you find yourself looking forward to your seven o'clock cram sessions in the evenings. You find yourself even _living _for them because there's just something about him, his name, his persona that makes you smile to yourself when no one is around.

Is it pathetic that you're always craning your neck to survey the halls for a flash of platinum-blond hair?

You stroll into the library, and you don't restrain the faintest smile from flying across your lips when you find that he's already there with scraps of parchment littering your usual desk as he's writing away at a foot-long essay with his eagle-feathered quill.

You really don't understand why there's a strange, fluttery feeling pooling in your stomach.

(You don't fancy him. You totally don't.)

You sit down next to him, greeting him with a grin, which he returns. He's been doing that more recently—grinning instead of smirking. You like to think that it's because you've had some sort of effect on him, that you somehow matter a tiny bit to him and—

And your heart can't help but skip a beat or two or three when he grins back at you because he never really grins around anyone but you and oh, it just makes you feel like you're special and appreciated for the first time in your life.

The idea that Scorpius Malfoy is secretly kind of sweet in his own way doesn't seem preposterous to you anymore. He never fails to amaze you with his intelligence, his patience, and his charm. And it's funny that the reason you haven't gone out to a nightclub in a while is because of the boy sitting next to you. You reckon that it's sort of ironic that you've only known him for three weeks and you think it's possible to trust him more than you trust any of your family members, who you have known for your entire sixteen years of existence. But you reckon that's because he has the uncanny ability to comfort you whenever you're depressed or ranting or just worn out—he makes you feel like you're actually important, like you have the potential to be someone other than the daughter of war heroes, like you're more than just an insignificant star burning feebly amongst the million other stars sequined across the darkened night sky.

And whenever he teases you, you just want to hex him but then, you become entranced by his broad grin, which slips into his trademark smirk a few seconds later. And it leaves you trembling because how is it possible that a boy you have just met can have such a tremendous effect on you?

Your ideal Prince Charming has transformed into the likeness of him because he's admittedly the definition of perfection, and you can't help but wonder if you lo—

No.

It's not love, it's not love, it's not love.

He's leaving Hogwarts in less than a month. It would be fruitless and pointless and mindless to even fancy him, an insanely attractive male person who happens to be two years older than you.

An insanely attractive male person who will encounter other girls upon leaving Hogwarts and will probably forget your stupid name.

As he talks in the rapid manner he always speaks in whenever he's explaining something, all you can do is focus on the deep silkiness of his voice and the tapping of his long piano fingers. You're afraid to look him in the eye when he speaks to you because you're afraid that you'll get lost in his gray eyes.

Sometimes, you hate him because you feel like a lovesick schoolgirl around him, and it isn't at all pleasant to feel so vulnerable and unlike yourself. It is, but it isn't. You're unaccustomed to feeling helpless yet so secure around someone because you're _you_ and the concept of having feelings other than anger and irritation and intense dislike is an enigma. And it's a tad bit frightening, to be honest, because the whirlpool of emotions and thoughts and feelings is unexpected and _ohsovery_ sudden as you're thrashed around like a broken sailboat lost in the winds and currents of a hurricane.

"Lily?" he interrupts.

You look up at him with a weak smile. "Yeah?"

His eyebrows are furrowed with concern. "Everything alright in that underused brain of yours?"

You fight the urge to nail him with a Bat-Bogey Hex. "Yup, absolutely perfect."

You're absolutely _not_ alright.

Not at all.

.

You sneak down to the Kitchens around midnight, tickling the pear and nimbly leaping into the portrait hole to the welcome sight of a dozen house elves awaiting your beck and call. You have become quite familiar with them over these past five years, as you're no stranger to spontaneous midnight snacks that leave you wondering if you'll end up obese one day.

You're feeling particularly unoriginal at the moment and you request a plate of cookies and a tall glass of milk as you plop down on a comfy armchair near the flames roaring away in the fireplace.

And you don't remember falling asleep but apparently you did because you wake up to Scorpius gingerly prodding your shoulder and balancing a plate of cookies and a tall glass of milk with his other hand.

You raise an eyebrow at the wary expression on his face. "Why are you looking at me like I'm a bloody dragon about to devour you whole?"

"Didn't know if you were one of those girls that turn into an irate monster at being woken up before the appropriate time," he answers, handing her the snack she requested about an hour ago.

You don't answer. You don't answer because the fact that Scorpius is also in the Kitchens at about one o'clock in the morning has just hit you. Taking the plate and tall glass from him, you proceed to munch on cookie and allow yourself a sip of warm milk as you delve deeper into a hidden realm of thoughts in the back of your mind. He's surprised that you don't object when he steals a cookie from your plate and situates himself on the armrest of your chair. You curse the stupid blush staining your pale cheeks as his hand accidentally brushes yours because you don't understand why you've been displaying the select symptoms of a girl in love of the late.

And you're not in love. You're _not_.

(Are you?)

You feel like you're in the middle of a dream, of a trance-like state as you watch yourself burrow deeper into the gaping hole you dug for yourself when you wished for your own Prince Charming. You wonder if this is all really happening to you, if this is all really true that you might be falling hopelessly in love like the lucky, _beautiful_ princesses in the tales. You sink deeper into the hole because you realise that you're not beautiful like the princesses in the tales; in fact, you're plain and normal and not unique in the slightest. And you happen to have the worst luck in the world because exams are over, and he's graduating in a week. And you've never been asked to Hogsmeade, so that means that you're not likeable, right?

(Or maybe you've never been asked because you've always acted like boys are jerks and this whole business with love is completely beneath you and incredibly stupid.)

You're so lost in the exponentially increasing amount of thoughts wildly flapping around in your mind that you don't notice him looking at you with a softened expression in his eyes.

"A Knut for your thoughts, Miss Potter?" he murmurs.

"You'd have to pay me at least a Galleon if you want to hear them," you reply, earning an amused smile from him.

He reaches into his pocket and tosses a Galleon at you, catching you by surprise. "Your thoughts, if you will?"

The dancing of the flames in the fireplace is reflected in his eyes, and you're suddenly consumed by the desire to dance, to dance with him, to dance with an absence of the usual scrutiny radiated by onlookers.

(You wonder what it would be like to ballroom dance with him.)

You don't expect to blurt out the impulsive notions crisscrossing the unbalanced frames of your thoughts, but you do.

Purely by accident, of course.

"I feel like dancing," you exclaim.

He's momentarily startled by your outburst and seems at a loss for words. You reckon that it's because he might have been expecting something deep or meaningful instead of your seemingly reckless words. After ten seconds, he's still befuddled, and you insert a theatrical groan and grab his hand, taking advantage of this moment to lead him through hidden passageways and into the moonlight outside.

You lead him through the copses of trees and tall wild grass until you reach the open, fully exposed under the gentle gaze of the moon. Everything is silent except for the occasional rustling of the wild grass and the feathered branches of looming trees in the distance. You don't care if a professor decides to wake up at this ungodly hour and to peep out of his or her window to see two students out of bed. All you care about is that it's just the two of you, you and him, alone in the open with no one to judge you, no one to watch you, no one to tell you what to do.

"I reckon you know the art of ballroom dancing, yeah?" you question.

"Of course, I do. Malfoys are expected to learn how to dance at the age of eight," he confirms in a stately manner.

"Teach me," you demand.

"And why would I want to do that?" he asks with a smirk dancing upon his lips.

"Because I'm feeling rather reckless at the moment and it's rather beautiful out here?" you retort.

"_You're_ beautiful, Lily," he replies, rendering you speechless.

(You want to believe that you're beautiful. You really do.)

You can't hide the blush flooding your cheeks. "I'm not fishing for compliments. Just teach me."

"Only if you say the magic word," he teases, paralleling the first time they spoke to each other.

"Please."

He takes your left hand and places it on his right shoulder, resting his right hand at the small of your back and clasping your right hand with his left. He takes a step, and you move with him. You mimic his fluid movements, and a slow cadence beats in your heart, a seamless rhythm that matches his. Being so close to him leaves electrifying tingles pulsing throughout your body, and all you can hear is the background music of the swaying of the trees and grasses all around you.

It's so serene and breathtakingly wonderful, and you want to take a snapshot of this moment and hold it to your heart forever.

For a split second, you wonder what it would be like to have him, what it would be like to be completely and utterly in love with him, what it would be like to have him love you back. And the crazy thought makes your mouth run dry because he's so beautiful and right for you and you think you wouldn't know what to do or say or think if he was yours.

You gaze up at him questioningly when he comes to an abrupt halt.

He takes a deep breath. "For the record, I _do _think that you're beautiful, Lily. I'm glad that I met you before I left Hogwarts because you're unlike any other person I've known. You're the most enigmatic person I know, and I'll definitely miss you."

(It's official: Scorpius Malfoy is your Prince Charming.)

"You won't forget me next year, will you?" you ask, biting your lip.

"Never," he answers with a little smile that makes your heart pulsate in congruence to a beating war drum.

It's the first time you've ever felt beautiful, and you're on cloud nine.

.

You're carelessly composed of starlit wishes that structure your insubstantial walls of paper-thin dreams. Your shaky world is tipped out on its side, teetering on uneven proportions of dead goals and fabricated lies and poisoned truths. Your entire being is about to collapse inward upon itself, to crumble into nothing but forgotten waves of ash, to fall to pieces of rubble and debris, to burn out like a dying star into the haunting darkness that resignedly blends in with the rest of the universe.

And there's something maddeningly exquisite in the way that Scorpius rips through your defences and everything comes crashing down with sparks and lightning and earthquakes and blinding light like a perversely beautiful resemblance of the apocalypse.

But he rebuilds your walls with hesitant trust and hope and flickering faith. And there is something warm in his touch, something warm in the restructuring of your walls. It gives consent to the idea that there's definitely something wrong with you. And, for some reason, you have decided to accept the wrongness that is flowering in you, the wrongness that is most often known as love.

You have decided that it's alright to be in love with perfection because it's the most pleasant emotion in the world and you feel like flying just at the mention of his name.

Maybe it's naïve to believe that he'd ever consider falling for you too. But jumping off a cliff induces the most vibrant sensation in the world, and you care nothing for the incoming contact with the jagged stalagmites extending from the rocks below as long as he's there when you jump.

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'cause right now could last forever, just as long as i'm with you

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**A/N: **Well. I loathe this pairing and I haven't written in over two months, so forgive me if this is absolute crap. And I apologise if it doesn't make any sense because it probably doesn't, for the most part. It's probably too fluffy, isn't it? Ugh.

Please don't favourite without reviewing! =)

-nic.


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